


The line between hunger and anger

by kawuli



Series: These are truly the last days: Panem's rebellion from below [2]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, District 6, District 9 (Hunger Games), Gen, Normal people make the rebellion happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:36:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9007888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: "If they ever know themselves, the land will be theirs and all the gas, all the rifles in the world won't stop them."-The Grapes of WrathThe rebellion's heroes might be Victors in an Arena, conspirators in the Capitol, a shadowy district's machinations, but no rebellion survives without a thousand acts of bravery by ordinary people in extraordinary times. The prairies feed the nation, and the railroads knit it together, and when whispers in secret become networks and plans and action, Zea and Sara don't hesitate. There's no going back now.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This has been long in coming, but if 2016 needs anything, it's stories about ordinary people, changing the world.
> 
> As always, the soundtrack for this series is [ F#A#∞](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wy4IsC5eb7o) by Godspeed! You Black Emperor

All the train crews have Tour Day off, and as many as can be arranged have it in Six. So it ends up being a hell of a party, since a lot of crews don’t see each other except now and at the Reaping. Problem is, the Tour bothers Sara a lot more, now that she knows more about what it means to be a Victor.

She wonders, sometimes, how she’d feel if Rokia hadn’t been Reaped in 71, if her association with the Games had stayed distant, if she could keep pretending the Games weren’t really _real_. Or if Rokia hadn’t won, and Sara had never found out that being a Victor was more a life sentence than a reward. Because the Games weren’t the worst of it—sure, that started things, left Rokia skittish and tense, but worse was after, when they took her and turned her into a beautiful… _thing_ , to be bought and sold. Told her she was nothing but what she could do for them, shaped her into the Victor they wanted, instead of the girl Sara knew.

Sara heard stories last night, in the crew barracks, about what happened in Eleven. Not that the crews were in the square, but gunshots carry, and every one of the cargo loaders there is on their side, so the news got out. The Girl on Fire has been pretty well quenched since then, apparently, but everyone’s anxious to see if something might happen here. Joe’s with the Victors’ Train, so Sara can’t ask him if anything’s planned on the Six side. He’d be the one to get the order, if there was one, highest ranked railroader in their tight circle of would-be revolutionaries. But he’s out of commission for the duration of the Tour, that train’s the most watched piece of equipment anywhere in Panem right now, she’s sure. Sara’s just a fourth-year cargo engineer on the outlier runs, and even Keita their crew boss isn’t important enough to get much information, so Sara resigns herself to a lot of not knowing.

They head for the square mid-afternoon, the train’s coming all the way down from Seven and there’s not much to show off beyond the hovercraft hangars near the station, so the Tour doesn’t spend much time in Six. Better that way.

Something seems different this time, though, and Sara can’t place what it is until they get close to the arrival time and she realizes nobody’s on the stage but the Mayor. Usually Rokia’d be sitting up there with the other Victors from Six, and they’d shake hands with the new Victor and have a fancy dinner and there’d be all kinds of nonsense that meant Rokia’d probably end up freaked out and hiding somewhere by the end of the night.

But today there’s nothing, not even chairs. And Sara’s still puzzling about it when the train pulls up—to a hovercraft hangar, not the Justice Building—because this is the Transportation District, after all, why go to the center of town when you could show off the most glamorous part of their official industry? The two Victors step out onto the platform with their mentor and the 12 escort, who’s fluttering like a damn butterfly. Both Victors since Rokia have been Careers, and they’ve been composed, professional, with picture-perfect smiles and waves and flawlessly memorized speeches, and before that Sara never paid much attention. These kids are not Careers, not professional, and they’re trying for composed, but while the boy looks around, wary but interested, the girl has the turned-in look Rokia gets when she’s just back from the Capitol.

Katniss reads her speech off index cards, hunched in as though she’s trying to hide, and Sara’s only half listening when Katniss pauses, looks up. And then the Peacekeepers standing in front of the stage wade into the crowd, push through hauling a couple of scruffy kids with furious glares. Sara glances over long enough to be sure that they’re nobody she knows, then looks back toward the stage. It’s callous, maybe, but she doesn’t want to attract attention over a stupid teenage stunt when there’s real work to do.

Katniss pauses, looks over at her mentor, keeps reading. The screens don’t move, focused on her and on Peeta, ignoring the commotion below. And by the time the broadcast goes out to the rest of Panem, it’ll be a glitch in the recording, a skip put down to faulty equipment, even the hesitation erased from the official record.

When they finish the stilted, careful speech, they go right back onto the train, leave the district as quickly as they came, and people file out toward the bars or the late shift or their homes, mostly talking about other things.

Sara sighs. They’d all been so hopeful, when this firecracker of a girl stared down the Gamemakers and won, and when they went off-script in Eleven, it’s like something hung on a knife-edge. Too bad any hope of change has slid away off the hunched shoulders of a girl who’s been beaten down by whatever they’ve threatened her with. Her sister, Sara thinks, Katniss volunteered for her sister, if she steps out of line they’ve got an automatic lever to use, and Sara’s fleetingly grateful that at least Rokia’s sisters are still too young to be Reaped.

Sara follows some of her crewmates back to one of the bars near the home-leave barracks, a rundown, noisy place that’s crowded today with off-duty railroaders.

“Poor kids,” Mady says, shaking her head. Sara thinks she’s talking about the Victors, nods.

Keita rolls his eyes. “It was stupid,” he says, and oh, they’re talking about the kids who got themselves arrested. “What good’s pissing off the Peacekeepers supposed to do?”

“I know, but still,” Mady persists. “Don’t tell me you weren’t ever young and stupid.”

“Not that stupid. My mama would’ve made whatever the Peacekeepers did look like fun and games if I’d pulled that kinda stunt.” Keita shakes his head, smiling ruefully.

“Seemed awful short,” Rick says, thoughtful. “Don’t they usually stick around for some Victors thing?”

Keita looks over at Sara, who shrugs. “I think so?”

Sara heads back to the barracks after a while, uncomfortable, out of sorts. She wishes she could just call Rokia, but it’s a bad idea. When Rokia first told her they couldn’t be seen together, Sara thought she was exaggerating, paranoid, overcautious. The more she’s learned since then, the more she realizes how lucky she is that Rokia’d kept it that way from the very beginning. So she’ll check their usual spots late tonight, but she can’t go to the Victors’ Village, won’t call on a phone line that’s surely tapped, won’t tell anyone outside of her own crew that she keeps in touch with a girl she used to work with back when. It’s the right thing to do, but it grates.

So she sits in her bunk with a flashlight and a book, silly adventure stories for kids but better than the romances marketed to women her age. At midnight, when the graveyard shift’s well settled in at the factories, she makes her way to this month’s meeting spot, hoping Rokia decides to come.

And there she is, in the narrow gap between the auto factory and the 24-hour corner store, leaning against the brick factory wall and toying with a cigarette. Her face is shadowed until she drags on the cigarette. Then the ember casts an orange glow that limns her nose and cheekbones, shows her lips curling upwards in a smile of recognition.

When Sara walks up to stand next to her, leaning against the opposite wall, Rokia straightens up to hand over the pack and matches, and Sara smiles and lights one for herself. Watches the smoke drift up to join the smog over the city, from factory smokestacks and sooty diesel trains and cars rolling off the line. Looks back at Rokia, who’s leaned back so the gap’s widened between them.

“I checked for bugs,” she says, just barely meeting Sara’s eyes before looking away towards the street. “It’s clean.”

Sara nods. “You weren’t at the Tour,” she says.

Rokia takes a deep breath, her chest rising with it under her coat. “They told us to stay away,” she says. “Those kids are in a lot of fucking trouble.”

Sara winces. “Looked like they’d gotten smacked down pretty good after 11.”

Rokia raises an eyebrow. “What happened in Eleven?”

“You didn’t hear?”

Rokia shakes her head. “I know it’s mandatory television, but I been holed up at Uncle Sal’s shop all week, not like he’s gonna make me sit in front of the screen.” She smiles, just quick.

“They didn’t show all of it on the broadcasts,” Sara says. “But those kids tried to give some of their Victor money to the families of the Eleven tributes.”

Rokia huffs what might be a laugh. Shakes her head.

“Yeah,” Sara says. “And Katniss, she said some stuff about Rue, I guess, and someone did that 3-finger salute from their Reaping and the PKs shot him.”

Now Rokia stands up straight. “Damn,” she says. “They really are scared.”

Sara nods. “Something’s coming,” she says—there’s nothing official, nothing certain, but there’s a current running through everything that wasn’t there before, sparking out in things like this.

“Yeah,” Rokia says, hesitant, considering. “They always say they’re waiting for a spark.”

Sara chuckles. “Well, they do call her the Girl on Fire.”

Rokia rolls her eyes.

They’re quiet for a bit. Sara grinds out the butt of her cigarette under her heel, looks back up at Rokia. “Anything new with you?” she asks, cautious.

Rokia shrugs, quick lift of her shoulders, puts her hands in her pockets. “Not really,” she says, looks out toward the road again. “I have to go to the Capitol in a couple days for the end of Tour stuff.”

Sara’s jaw tightens at that, and she’s glad Rokia’s not watching her while she wrestles down her fury. “That sucks,” she says, and it sounds weak even to her. Rokia’s still watching the road, one corner of her mouth twitching up.

She looks back at Sara and shrugs. “What about you, you still on the outlier routes?”

“Yeah,” Sara says, casts around for anything much to say, but it’s all either the same boring work stuff or stupid railroader gossip, and Rokia’s not going to care about either one. “We’re looking for contacts,” she settles on, and even if Rokia’s sure there aren’t any bugs Sara’s going to watch what she says. “Joe says we need someone in Nine.”

Rokia looks interested. “Why Nine?”

“Fertilizer, apparently. Ammonium nitrate.”

“Huh,” she says, and they both shut up, because that road’s too dangerous to follow any further.

Rokia starts getting antsy pretty quick after that. “I should get back,” she says, looking down. “I left the girls on their own.”

Sara nods. “Okay,” she says, her mouth suddenly dry. “Take care of yourself, yeah?”

Rokia smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Sure,” she says. “You too.”

Her hands are still in her pockets as she turns and walks away.

Sara waits there for a few more minutes, listening to the roar of the factory machinery, watching as a shuffling junkie passes on the road and goes into the store, comes back out muttering obscenities. Finally she sighs, pushes off the wall, and goes back to the barracks. She’s tired, and it’s late, but it’s a long time before she can sleep.


	2. From I to We

Sara’s in the train’s control room when the mandatory broadcast comes on, flashing onto the monitors above the status indicators and the glowing switches. Everyone rolls their eyes at the ridiculous game of dress-up happening on screen; you don't get on a train crew if you're interested in fancy dresses. Mostly Sara feels sorry for the kid, dressed up and tricked out and everything she does flashed onto their screens. She knows the distance in her eyes on the Tour, on every television broadcast, knows what it means and wonders what how much the boy understands. Some of it, she’s sure, it flashes across his face in waves of frustration he pushes below the surface almost fast enough to think she's imagining it.

The girl smiles and spins and giggles and Sara grits her teeth and looks away, and thank Snow for small mercies at least Rokia's just another player in the gossip game, the who's-fucking-who bullshit they keep to the entertainment channels where Sara can ignore it. Has to ignore it, if she wants to keep her job and her life and not storm out into the Capitol like the worst kind of jealous husband.

This kid doesn't get the luxury of being ignored. And for all that Joe and whoever it is he talks to are spinning plans to use everything she's stirred up to fuel the simmering discontent, Sara can't help seeing the scared 16-year-old girl instead of the rebel. So she looks away from the screen, pretends something interesting's happening in the temperature readings. Privacy's not something Victors get to have but she tries to give the poor kid some anyway.

And then the seal flashes and the President is on the screen talking about the Quarter Quell, and now everyone is paying attention. Keita’s got kids Reaping age, and so do some of the others, and Sara can't summon the apathy she always used to have about the Games, so she's holding her breath along with the rest of them.

“Tributes will be Reaped from the existing pool of Victors." She hears it, but it doesn't sink in right away, because everyone else is letting out huge, relieved sighs, and then Keita gives her a sympathetic look and her stomach drops. Existing pool of victors. Oh...oh, _fuck_.

She gets up and walks out, and nobody says anything and nobody follows her, and she walks back to the first grain car, scrambles up the ladder to sit on top, turning her face toward the wind as the train flies through the plains and gritting her teeth into it.

She's not sure how long it's been when Keita hauls himself up the ladder and sits facing her, blocking the wind so she can open her eyes to look at him. He's excited. Fuck him, he thinks this is great, and he's trying to tone it down because he knows her, knows Rokia a little, and he'd better not say what he's thinking or she's going to punch him, and then one of them's likely to fall off the train and get killed. And he's got at least 50 pounds on her, but she's wound so tight punching someone would be a damn relief, so it's just not going to go well for anybody.

"I'm sorry," he says first, and that lets her unclench her fists but it brings the threatening tears a little closer to the surface and she's not sure that's better. She shrugs, not quite trusting herself to talk. "It's going to be the trigger, though," he goes on, and she glares at him. They're sitting on top of a train going 80 miles an hour, he doesn't need to talk in code. "They said to look out for a trigger, something with the Games, and fuck me if this isn't it."

She should be excited. This is what they've been waiting for, what she's been waiting for practically since she started with this crew, before Rokia was even Reaped, what she's been itching for even more ever since. But there are four Victors in District Six, two female, two male, and that means it's a 50-50 chance her girl's going back into the Arena.

Keita looks at her, face twisted like he knows what she's thinking, but he's too far away from it, too high up in the planning, he knows better than to say it but he'd send Rokia into the Arena if it's the best thing for the rest of Panem. Sara won't. Can't. Because even more than last time it's a death sentence, because the Rokia she used to know never came out of the first Arena and the Rokia she's managed to cling to friendship with won't come out even if by some miracle she wins a second time. Because it's not right, not fair, because she wants to pull Rokia into her lap and hold her there but even if she was in Six she couldn't.

Keita sighs, shoulders heaving. "I'm sorry," he says again, turns to the ladder down. "We'll be in Nine in an hour."

Sara doesn't come down until she can see the grain elevators on the horizon.

 

* * *

 

Zea’s at Durum’s when the TV turns on for the mandatory broadcast. Loud, because if Durum actually wants to hear what’s happening it has to be loud. They’re eating dinner together with Virgil and Milo, and Lucerne glares, gets up, turns the volume down.

It’s just Caesar Flickerman, with the girl from Twelve, talking a bunch of nonsense about fancy wedding dresses. They go back to their meal and try to ignore it until Caesar’s face is replaced by the seal of the Capitol and the President.

“On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors.”

There’s a moment of total silence. Zea looks at Milo, who shrugs one shoulder. Durum’s still fixed on the screen, squinting to see. Lucerne looks up at Zea and smiles, eyes flashing. “Oh,” she says, softly. “Oh, they’re going to regret this.” She sounds gleeful.

Zea raises an eyebrow. 

“The Victors? They think reaping the Victors is a punishment for the Districts?” Lucerne goes on, “Maybe some places, but if they’re Reaping Victors they aren’t Reaping kids.” 

Virgil’s face splits into a slow smile. “It’s the Capitol that loves the Victors,” he says. 

Lucerne nods. “And they’re all fighters,” she says. “I don’t think they’ll go quietly.” 

Durum looks at Lucerne, pleased the way he’d been when Zea’d done something clever in his combine her apprenticeship year. He nods. “Could be something.”

They’re still sharing thoughtful looks when there’s a knock on the door. Loud, harsh, making the door rattle on its hinges. 

Zea’s breath catches in her chest. Durum purses his lips and gets to his feet. The minute he opens the door, a Peacekeeper pushes his way in and they all freeze. Zea thinks of her parents, of Emmer, wonders what they’ll tell Ester when she doesn’t show up in Spring.

And then the Peacekeeper pushes the door shut behind him and takes off his helmet. Blond hair, blue eyes, and he looks—scared?

“Durum and Lucerne Graber?” he asks, with a Peacekeeper’s cadence, but without their usual confidence. 

Lucerne stands, comes to stand next to Durum. “Yes,” she says, quiet.

He doesn’t move but Zea thinks she can see some of the tension leave his face. “You people need to be a lot more careful,” he says, voice sharp. “We got a report about too many people gathering here,” he says. “No more than four people in one place, unless it’s family.” He looks at each of them in turn. 

There’s something else going on here, and Zea isn’t about to assume, but…

“More careful?” Lucerne asks, watching the Peacekeeper with those piercing blue eyes. 

“You’re planning a rebellion,” he says, voice even. “You can’t break the little rules.”

And Zea lets out a long breath. She can hear Milo next to her doing the same.

“I caught the call this time,” he says. “And I can pass it off as nosy neighbors once, but you can’t keep doing it.” 

He’s talking to Lucerne, doesn’t take his eyes off her. “No,” she says. “We won’t.” 

“I’m Alister,” he says, and he doesn’t offer a hand to shake, doesn’t take his eyes off hers.

“Lucerne,” she says. “But you knew that.”

He nods. “Take care,” he says, and it’s a stock phrase, Zea’s used it herself any number of times, offhand, but he says it precise and careful.

“You too,” Lucerne says, and it’s equally weighted. 

Alister nods. Turns crisply, on the balls of his feet, pulls his helmet on, and walks out. 

Once the door closes, the five of them look around the room at each other, wearing identical shocked expressions.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Durum says, finally, shaking his head. “Ain’t that something.”

Zea feels like someone just knocked her off an augur, like she’s flat on her back and sucking in air.

“Come on, Zea,” Virgil says, startling them all out of it. “We may as well go to work.”

Zea looks at the clock. There’s still hours left before their shift starts, but she nods, follows him out. When they get out to the street, she’s not surprised that Virgil leads her away from the loading docks, out through the wide streets toward the very edge of town where the brick wall separates the City from the rest of the district. The City’s shrunk since the wall went up, the blocks near it are an odd patchwork of houses kept up as well as anyone can manage and vacant lots where the houses have been torn down. To keep out vermin, supposedly, but Zea wonders if it wasn’t just as much to keep the crews from having an alternative to paying for the barracks.

Virgil knocks on the door of one of the houses still standing, a weather-worn wooden thing that looks like it’d blow over in a stiff wind. A man opens the door, eyes narrowed in suspicion until he recognizes Virgil. Doesn’t say anything, just invites them in.

Once they’re inside, Virgil introduces them. “Zea, this is Bley. He works in the ethanol plant.”

“You were at Durum’s,” Zea remembers, “Last fall.”

Bley nods. “Pleased to meet you,” he says, his voice a low rumble, his face hard to see in the dim light.

“You’re not gonna believe what just happened,” Virgil says. “Peacekeeper showed up to bust us for being five people who’re not related, but turns out the guy’s on our side.”

Bley blinks. “Thought they were all Capitol,” he says, “How’d that even happen?”

Virgil shrugs. “Fucked if I know,” he says.

Zea’s not sure why she’s here until Virgil continues, after a pause. “Zea made contact with a girl on the train crew.”

Bley looks over at her. “Nice,” he says, nodding.

Virgil didn’t give Bley the name of their Peackeeper, so Zea keeps Sara’s name to herself. No reason for him to know, she supposes.

“You got some people at the plant, we got a few on loading, I know a guy in distribution, and now this Peacekeeper,” Virgil says, and he sounds excited, nearly impatient. “It’s growing, Bley,” he says, and the man smiles indulgently.

“Still a lot more of them then there are of us,” Bley says. “Still don’t know what’s happening anywhere else. Still don’t know what we’d do if we decided to do something.” Zea shoves her hands in her pockets. The house is drafty, and cold, sure, but Bley’s also damping down Virgil’s enthusiasm pretty comprehensively. Hers too, while he’s at it.

Virgil sighs. “Yeah,” he says. “Anyway, thought you should know.”

Bley nods. “Thanks,” he says. “Now get outta here before the PK patrols come through, this ain’t your neighborhood.”

Virgil gives him an extremely complicated look that Zea doesn’t even try to parse, and heads for the door. “Good to meet you,” Zea says, hesitant.

“Take care of yourself, Zea,” Bley says, half-smiling, teeth bright in the darkness.

They split up once they’re back on busier streets. Zea loops around, wondering what’s just happened, if she’s the only one with the feeling of thunderheads building, of the roiling clouds and the green tinge to the sky that means head for cover.

And she’s starting to think it’s not just her, especially when everyone on the train crew is walking around with closed-off expressions that flash into fierce excitement sometimes when they see Zea. Except for Sara. Sara’s expression is furious, every movement harsh, jerky, a little reckless. Until near the end of Zea’s shift she heads off for her usual smoke break, and Zea finds her, more than usually lost in thought.

“You saw the Quell card?” Sara asks, as she pulls Zea into a hug for any stray eyes, human or electronic. Zea nods, and they pull apart just enough for a kiss, for Sara to tuck a stray strand of hair behind Zea’s ear and lean close again. “It’s a signal,” she says. “Don’t know what yet, but shit’s about to hit the fan.”

Zea pushes in, kisses Sara to hide her shock. Sara’s chuckling, low in her throat, kisses back with a little more enthusiasm than Zea’d have expected. “Just tell us what we can do,” Zea whispers, breathless.

Sara smiles, slow and dangerous. “Turns out,” she says, “you can make a damn good explosive from fertilizer and diesel.”

Zea feels her eyes widen. “We got plenty of that,” she says, and the teasing lilt she puts into it makes Sara smile and kiss her again.

“I gotta run,” she says, and Zea nods. “Stay in touch,” Sara calls over her shoulder, as she walks back to the platform. Zea closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and goes back to work.

 

* * *

 

They don’t tell Zea until right before it happens. She’s not going to be in the City much longer, the snow’s mostly melted and the air smells green and wet and fertile, and in a few more weeks they’ll be heading out to plant spring wheat up north.

Virgil catches her as they’re getting ready for the train to arrive, yells at her for some imagined screwup and gets her out of the forklift to follow him. Once they’re in a camera blind spot he drops his voice to a whisper.

“You tell Sara we’re on for Tuesday night,” he says, and Zea frowns at him in confusion. “Gonna be an ethanol leak, they’ll have to hold the train till it’s cleared, get everybody out of the way. You’ll take her over to Bley’s.” Zea nods. Virgil raises his voice again. “Now do it right this time,” he snaps, and walks away.

Zea waits for a minute, taking deep breaths until she can hide her excitement behind something approximating chastened. She has to be careful, the rest of the shift, not to fuck up for real just because her mind is on other things.

Finally Sara slips off for her end-of-shift smoke and Zea makes her way over. Sara smiles when she sees her, runs a hand through her hair, pushing loose strands toward the braid running down her back.

“Hey there,” Sara says, voice low, eyes sparking, and Zea feels a flash of guilt; she hasn’t seen Emmer in weeks and this was supposed to be just an excuse, a way to hide what they’re doing. But there’s adrenaline racing through her and she steps into a kiss that tastes like cigarette smoke and diesel and just a hint of metal and Sara hooks her fingers into Zea’s belt loops and pulls their hips flush. Bites Zea’s lip just a bit before she pulls away.

“What is it?” Sara asks.

“Tuesday,” Zea says, leaning in again. “I’m taking you to meet someone.”

Sara pulls away to look Zea in the eye, a startled smile breaking over her face. She puts both hands to Zea’s cheeks, gives her an exaggerated smack on the lips, and when she turns to go she’s chuckling. Zea watches her vault up onto the platform and sighs, before she turns to head back to work.

 

The train’s just pulled in on Tuesday night when the alarm sounds. Zea’s heading toward the platform with her forklift when the lights flash and the siren wails, and she can just hear Virgil’s voice calling for everyone to get back. The smell of ethanol wafts over them a second later, almost overpowering, and the train crew is moving too, heading away from the loading pipe that’s spraying fuel all over the train.

The Peacekeepers guarding the fence move almost instantly, most of them rushing to get out of the potential fire zone, the rest heading toward the source of the spill. Zea sees Sara near Virgil, catches her eye for half a second, and then heads down the fence to the corner where they’ve loosened the turnbuckles just enough that there’s some slack in the wires and they can squeeze through. Current’s off—automatic, when there’s a fire hazard, so it’s easy enough to slide between the wires and head out through the streets.

It’s cold enough that Sara can keep her hood up without drawing attention, and Zea walks close by her side, their heads bent together. There’s not many people in Nine with Sara’s black hair and prairie-dust skin, and the last thing they want is for someone to wonder what she’s doing here. It’s never seemed so far to the outskirts of town, and Zea’s chest is tight until they open the door to Bley’s house and step in.

Sara puts her hood back, looks around a little wide-eyed. Bley and Milo are sitting at the table, and they look about as relieved to see Zea as she is to be here. Bley gets up to take Sara’s coat, pulls a box out of the closet.

“Here’s the stuff you asked for,” he says. “Quicker we do this the better.”

Sara nods, takes a deep breath, and pulls a few tools out of the pockets of her grease-streaked overalls. Pliers, wire cutter, a spool of thin wire—nothing fancy, Zea notes, all things they can find here. Sara sits down at the table and starts explaining while Zea goes to the window to watch out from a crack in the curtains.

“And that’s it,” Sara says finally. “That’s your detonator, you pack the fertilizer and the diesel into the truck and you’re set.”

Milo whistles through his teeth. “Wish I’d’a known it was this easy,” he says, “Might not’a waited so long.”

Sara chuckles. “That’s why they don’t let the Threes out of district,” she says.

“You’re no Three though,” Bley says, and it sounds offhand except for how careful it is.

“No,” Sara allows, “I know a guy who knows a girl who knows explosives.”

“You’re sure that girl knows her stuff?” Bley presses just a little, leaning forward to touch the device they’ve put together. “This is actually gonna work?”

Sara smiles. “You see the end of the 69th Games?” she asks, and Bley sits back in his chair, eyes fixed on Sara’s.

Milo whistles again. “Damn,” he says, and Zea’s never seen Milo impressed before, not by anything.

“Yeah,” Sara says, getting up and heading toward the closet for her coat. “So yes, she knows her stuff.”

They head back out into the night, walking as quick as they can without seeming like they’re in a hurry. Zea can hear the siren when they get closer, breathes a little easier. They duck back through the fence and Zea stops, lets Sara go ahead, slides into the narrow space between pallets and counts to 100 before heading towards her emergency position. Virgil’s not far away, shoveling fuel-soaked sand off the ground and into a waste bin. She takes the shovel from him with a nod, and he moves down the line to check everyone’s progress. A half-hour later when the Peacekeepers come through asking if she’s seen anyone suspicious Zea lets her eyes go wide and shocked and says no.

 

* * *

 

It’s mid-April when Zea comes back from work one morning to a flimsy yellow form on top of her footlocker. Notice to report, Monday, crew lead: Ester Jantzen. It’s a relief—Zea doesn’t know who else will be on the crew, won’t find out until they show up but at least it’s still Ester’s crew, and that’s a good sign.

When she wakes up she heads out to the common room, looking for Bran or Milo, curious if they’ll still be working together. Bran’s gone, but Milo’s sitting around a table playing cards for piles of beans. He looks up when Zea comes in.

“You get your assignment?” he asks, glancing up from his cards.

“Yeah, back with Ester. You?”

Milo nods. “Yup, gotta keep an eye on you,” he teases, but Zea’s not sure he’s entirely joking.

Later that afternoon she gets a call from Emmer.

“Hey there, Emmer,” Zea says, the nonchalance mostly feigned. The faint remembered scent of smoke and diesel is probably just her guilty conscience.

“Hey, Zea,” Emmer responds. “You get your assignment?”

“Yeah, Ester’s crew again. You?”

“Same.” Emmer pauses. “It’ll be good to have the season together again.” She sounds—wistful maybe. Nostalgic. Zea feels herself smile.

“Yeah,” she says, “It will.”

“I gotta go,” Emmer says, “See you soon.”

“See you,” Zea echoes, and then the line goes dead.

Milo’s grinning when she gets off the phone, like a cat with a mouse. Zea glares at him and heads out into the warming spring air to walk around a bit. And to think. Everything seems different this year, even though it’s the same rainy early-spring, the same weeds poking up through cracks in the sidewalks, reminding them that the city’s built on soil after all. The same sense of things coming alive again, the wheat crews starting to head out while the corn crews watch jealously, checking the forecasts. Pretty soon the barracks will empty out completely for the summer, gathering dust until the equipment change in June. And pretty soon after that the Games will start up again. And if Sara’s right, if the Games are the spark that’s going to blow up the whole dusty elevator that Panem’s becoming, then who knows what’ll happen. And that’s the thing that’s making everything look different. Like everything matters just that little bit more, like there’s hidden meaning behind every dusty brick wall.

And the thing is, Emmer doesn’t know about any of it. And Zea can’t tell her. It’s not like her idle wondering last summer over old books and possibilities. Now it’s real, it’s concrete and important and dangerous because of it, and Zea has never liked secrets.

Her wandering has brought her to the city wall, just over head-high and built out of the same baked-dirt bricks the first houses were built from. It’s not a serious obstacle, not really, and Zea climbs up easily to sit on top of it. And looking over the fields it’s clear why it doesn’t _need_ to be a real obstacle. The fields stretch out, straggly clover and rye struggling out of the mud, the river glints in the distance, the horizon stretches unbroken, only the low hills on the horizon still tree-covered and wild. No cover to hide in, nothing out there worth stealing, nothing to eat—nobody much bothers with what’s beyond the wall. But Zea lets her eyes rest on the wide sky, the unbroken horizon, away from the buildings and the road, green and brown and the river glinting in the corner of her eye. She feels herself sigh, breathe deep and smell the fresh, green spring smell outside, feels the cool breeze blowing against her, enjoys the quiet as long as she dares. Because the Peacekeepers make their rounds, irregular checks just in case, and the last thing Zea can afford is to get caught breaking some dumbass rule. So she scrambles down, half-sliding, and makes her way back to the barracks.

That night at work Virgil passes her a flimsy slip of paper as he passes. Sara catches her eye, gives her a tight smile before going back to work. It’s raining, cold spring rain crawling down her back and turning her fingers to ice inside her gloves. The paper nearly dissolves before Zea gets a chance to read it.

_Bley. 0600._

Zea lets the paper crumble in her fingers, turning to a thin film she wipes on her pants as she goes to get the next pallet. 0600 won’t give her time to change into dry clothes. She clenches her jaw against the shivers running down her spine and shakes water off her coat.

The rain lets up a little as the sky lightens toward the end of the shift, and Zea hops down from the forklift gratefully, clocks out and shakes water off her hair, walks quick towards the ragged edge of town with her teeth chattering.

Bley’s got a fire going, raises an eyebrow at her as he waves her inside. “Get out of your wet stuff, you’ll get pneumonia,” he says, impatient. Zea shucks off her coat, hesitates. “Oh for the love…” Bley says, ducks into what must be his bedroom and comes out with worn jeans and a flannel shirt.

“Thanks,” Zea says, going over to stand by the fire, too cold for modesty. Everything’s too big, but it’ll stay on at least, and this close to the fire her hair’s starting to dry.

She’s just finished spreading out her wet things when Milo comes in. Henods at her, smirking just faintly, goes to sit on the couch. Lucerne comes after that, scowling and rubbing her hands up and down her arms against the cold.

“Good, you’re here,” she says, shortly. Zea looks up at the voice, sharp and commanding. “We’re going to need you to do something for us,” she says, and we need you to say yes or no, and to say it now, and if it’s yes we are counting on you, so don’t you _dare_ just tell me what I want to hear.”

Milo glances at Zea, one eyebrow raised. Zea shakes her head—she’s got no idea what’s going on either.

“We need you to get your hands on a couple sacks of nitrogen starter,” Lucerne says. “And get it as close to here as possible.”

Zea looks over at Milo. His eyes are as wide as hers.

“Lucerne,” Milo says, “How’re we s’posed to hide a couple hundred pounds of fertilizer? It’s not a bottle of liquor we’re talking about here, this shit’s serious.”

Lucerne sighs. “I don’t know,” she says. She’s standing against the wall, and now she starts pacing, slowly, head down. “We need someone in the depots.”

Zea sighs. “Depots are tricky,” she says, mostly to herself. “Folks’re all off on their own, can’t talk much.” She thinks about it. “You’d have to catch ‘em at the shipping docks. My dad always had a little gossip from town when he’d come back.”

Lucerne nods slowly, thinking. “Where’s your folks at these days, Zea?” she asks.

Zea bites her lip. “Dunno,” she says. “Last I heard it was Salina, but I didn’t get any mail ‘fore the trucks stopped running this year.”

Lucerne’s still watching, still thinking. “Well, I will look into it,” she says, careful and precise. “Our friend Alister may be able to get you a travel pass on your way back into the City.”

“I don’t—“ Zea pauses. “I don’t want to get them involved,” she says.

Lucerne’s mouth draws tight. “They’d turn you in?” she asks, sharp, “Their own daughter?”

Zea shakes her head, slowly. “Doubt it,” she says, “Dad liked the old stories, from when the Depots were independent. Always liked the idea. But they—I can’t just show up with stolen fertilizer and tell them to hold it for me till we can make a bomb out of it.”

Now Milo’s looking at her. “Why not?” he asks, as though it wasn’t obvious.

“They should get a choice!” Zea snaps. “You all gave me a choice, made damn sure I knew what I was getting into, and now you’re saying I don’t owe my own parents the same courtesy?”

Milo and Lucerne trade looks, the kind Zea has always hated, the kind that says “we are adults and you aren’t, and you couldn’t possibly understand.” And Zea bites the inside of her lip and stands up so she can glare down at them both.

“What?” she asks, snapping it off.

“You’re not wrong,” Milo says, sighing, and Zea’s hackles lower just a little at his tone. “But Zea, it isn’t like we got a lotta other options.”

“How’re you even gonna get it to the City?” Zea asks.

Lucerne smiles a little. “One step at a time, Zea,” she says. “We’ll sort it out.”

“But who’s _we?”_ Zea asks, “ _Who_ is gonna sort it out, how’re they gonna—“

“Zea,” Milo says, soft but firm. “She can’t tell you that.”

Zea stops, looks down, sighs. “I know,” she says finally, “I just… I wanna keep my folks safe, and you’re asking me to—drag them into all of this.”

“I know, Zea,” Lucerne says, “I know, and it’s not right, and I wouldn’t ask you to if I had any other options.” She pauses. “I’ll try and get word to them somehow, but Zea, if you trust them this is our best shot.”

Zea looks down. Breathes in, out, feels the heat of the fire behind her burning out the last of the night’s damp cold. Looks at Milo, at Lucerne, at Bley hanging back in the doorway. Thinks about sitting up in the cab of the truck next to her Dad, begging to go along on his trips to town, thinks about the long lean winters way out in Hayes, quiet stories around a dwindling fire and Mom weighing out the flour to make it through to spring. Finally she looks back at Lucerne.

“Okay,” she says. “You set it up so I can see them, Milo’n me’ll get the fertilizer.”

Milo grins, but Lucerne is solemn when she nods. “Thank you, Zea,” she says. Zea nods, and their eyes lock for a second before Lucerne turns and leaves, without saying goodbye.

Milo leaves next, a couple minutes later. He drops a hand to Zea’s shoulder on his way out. “We’ll figure something,” he says. “It’ll work out.”

Her clothes are still damp. Zea shivers again as she pulls them on, folds up Bley’s things to give back. He comes out into the room to take them, solid and silent. “Thanks, Zea,” he says when she hands him his things, “You take care now, y’hear?”

Zea just nods again, because she doesn’t know what to say to any of it, and goes back to the barracks to sleep.

 

* * *

 

It's raining, the day the crew meets for the first time. The same crew as last year, and everyone looks more or less relieved to see each other. Emmer’s standing next to Ester, solemn until she catches Zea’s eye and smiles, wide and automatic and beautiful. It catches Zea by surprise, the warmth of it, the openness. She smiles back without thinking, and she hadn't realized how tense she'd been until something releases. Emmer steps up and hugs Zea tight, and it's surprising, for a second, because her hair’s loose and curling around her shoulders, she smells like soap and something sweet, clean and new and fresh. Zea pulls away.

“You clean up nice,” she says, tucking stray hairs behind her ear. Zea’s jacket is the same one she's had since she started, fraying at the cuffs and smelling permanently of dust and diesel. Emmer laughs, leans forward to kiss Zea's cheek.

“I missed you,” she says, low in Zea's ear. When she steps away she squeezes Zea's hand once, then holds on.

“C’mon, kids,” Dale calls, from the doorway. “Trucks’re waiting.”

Emmer groans. Four trucks again, for a busy spring. “Lemme guess,” Milo says, sardonic. “They upped the spring wheat quotas?”

Ester sighs. “Yeah,” she says. “C’mon Milo, you can drive out, right?”

Milo nods. “Sure thing, boss,” he says, and Ester gives him a sharp look but he’s apparently serious.

Zea drops Emmer’s hand and grabs her duffel. “See ya when we stop,” she says, and Emmer nods.

It ought to be comfortable, riding up with Dale. It is, mostly, but Zea's still thinking about Lucerne, about what she and Milo are supposed to do and how badly it'll go for everyone on the crew if they get caught. It's not fair, dragging them into this, and she's had long arguments with Milo about it, hissing whispers in back streets about how the hell they're supposed to pull this off. In the end, someone managed to pull enough strings to get Zea's folks’ Depot on their planting list, a few weeks into the season. So they're set, assuming Zea doesn't go crazy sitting on the plan until then, assuming she can get her Dad alone to tell him, assuming he says yes, assuming they don't get caught, assuming so many things it leaves Zea jumpy. Dale knows her well enough to notice, glances over.

“You in that much of a hurry to get started?” He asks, then grins. “Or you just waiting to get that girl of yours alone?”

Zea laughs, startled out of her worries for the moment. “Been a long winter,” she says, smirking, and lets Dale take that how he wants. He just chuckles, glances over again and shakes his head.

It's a long enough drive up into the northern prairies that it's dark when they get in. The planters have got headlights, but Ester tells them to wait until morning. They're not at a Depot, and Zea drinks in the space, fields stretching out to the horizon in all directions, stars coming out brilliant against the black sky. She lets out a long breath. It's better, out here under this sky. She'd gotten used to the claustrophobia of town, narrow streets and buildings and grey washed out skies, but coming back out here is like coming home.

Emmer comes over, tosses the tent bag at her, snapping Zea back down to earth. Not quite in time to catch the thing, but she bends down to pick it up from where it fell, a couple steps away. Emmer’s laughing and snapping together tent poles when Zea comes over. “Good to be back out,” Zea says, pulling the tent and tarps out of the bag.

Emmer smiles. “Yeah, I guess so,” she says, looking around. “We've got a good crew.”

The hesitation is faint, but it's there. “You like your winter job better?” Zea asks, trying not to make it an accusation.

Emmer shrugs. “Nah… I dunno. Sometimes it's nice to go home at the end of the day.” She glances over at Zea, with a rueful smile. “To a house, with showers and real beds and everything.”

Zea laughs. “Spoiled,” she says, reaching over to tousle Emmer’s hair. Emmer laughs too, but it isn't really a joke and they both know it.

Ester's pulling out rations when they get the tent up. There's nothing around to burn so no campfire tonight, but they sit in a circle anyway, munching on ration pack biscuits and soup rehydrated with boiling water from Ester's kettle.

“What’d you do over winter, Dale?” Milo asks.

“Same thing as now, Dale says, “drove truck, taking tesserae out to the Depots.”

Milo snorts. “Pretty crazy, haul the grain from the Depots to the city, pack it into tesserae, ship it back out to the Depots.”

Dale chuckles, shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Ester go along with you?” Milo asks.

“No, Ester has better things to do,” Ester replies, coming to sit next to Dale and give Milo a sharp look. “Inventory checks, maintenance reports, scheduling, and you’re lucky I like you, or you might be back in the City looking for a factory job. They're trying to cut back the crews this year, but the quotas are too high. Ministry decided they'd keep the higher quotas rather than cutting crews, but it was a close thing.”

Zea shakes her head. Everyone looks surprised, from what she can see in the dim light. They'd been run hard to meet the quotas last year, and Zea can't imagine how anyone expects them to move faster.

She finds out, the next morning, when Ester shouts them awake in the dim pre-dawn grey. Emmer groans, turns to curl into Zea's chest. Her skin is soft and warm, and Zea hooks a leg around Emmer's and pulls close, bends down to kiss her hair.

“I should not have let you keep me up that late,” Emmer mumbles.

Zea laughs. “Hey, you can't blame me, you were an eager participant.”

Emmer just groans again.

“Girls!” Ester calls. “Get your butts out here or I'm gonna collapse your tent.”

“Coming!” Zea calls, untangles herself and reaches for her clothes. It's cold outside of the nest of sleeping bags, and Zea swears under her breath as she pulls her sweater over her head and reaches for her jacket. Emmer’s close behind her.

Everyone else is already out, and giving them knowing looks. “You are all assholes,” Emmer grumbles. “And it is way too early.”

Ester passes her a cup of coffee with a smile. Dale hands one to Zea. “We gotta get this section done by lunchtime, so get a move on.” She tosses around ration bars, to a chorus of groans, and they head out.

The next two weeks are a blur of campsites and Depots, early mornings and late nights and wishing for a good hard rain to give them a day off. No such luck though, and Zea's struggling to stay awake at the wheel of the truck when they pull into a Depot and she sees a familiar face waving them in to park.

Zea hadn't kept track of the schedule. But there's her dad, grinning at her when she climbs down from the cab, there's Milo, giving her a long careful look, and she's wrapped in her dad's tight bear hug before the surge of adrenaline has finished washing through her.

“Hi Dad,” she says, against his shoulder. He lets her go and steps back.

“Hey, girlen,” he says, with a wide smile. The door to the house slams open and shut, and there's Mom, and another hug and her mom blinks back tears and smiles at the rest of the crew. “You all come on in,” she says, “we got dinner ready, you look like you’ve not had a good meal since Christmas.”

Emmer steps up to Zea's shoulder. A reminder.

Zea takes her hand as they head in. Dad looks over, sees their tangled hands and raises an eyebrow. Zea nods, and he grins.

Zea makes introductions around the table while everyone digs into real hot food like they haven't had since they left the City. She finishes with “and this is my girl, Emmer, she's our crew mechanic.”

Mom’s eyes light up, Dad just nods. “Welcome here,” Dad says, and he means everyone but winks at Emmer. “Glad to have you.”

Everyone else drifts away after dinner, Milo with a long, careful look, Emmer last and with a kiss on the cheek.

And now the fear pools in Zea's stomach again, and she takes a deep breath.

“Can we go walk a bit?” Zea asks, and it sounds tense and strained even to her, so she isn't surprised when they both look at her, concerned.

“Sure,” Dad says, pushing his chair back, and Mom follows. They walk out to the garden, new planted, and out towards the fields before Zea manages to work up her nerve. She stops.

“I need you to help me steal some fertilizer,” she says. Hesitates a moment, then adds, “we need it to build a bomb, to fight the Capitol.”

They stare at her, faces blank. Dad reaches for Mom’s hand, squeezes, and they look at each other and start laughing.

Zea just blinks at them, astonished.

“Sorry, love,” Mom says finally. “We just—” she chuckles again.

“We thought you were gonna tell us you were getting married or something.”

Zea’s mouth drops open. She closes it. “It's not…it's not that serious, me and Emmer, it's…she's City, she's gonna get a job in a shop there, I don't…”

Dad drops a hand to her shoulder. “It's okay, Zea.”

He turns serious. “You really want us to help you build a bomb?” It's only a little incredulous.

“Yes,” Zea says. Pauses. “Well, I won't be building it. I just said I'd try and get the fertilizer.”

Mom and Dad trade a look again. “You trust these people?” Mom asks.

“Yes,” Zea says again. “Durum’s one of them, you remember? My old boss?”

Mom smiles a little. “The old guy, always telling jokes?”

“Yeah,” Zea says. “That'd be him.”

“What do you need us to do?” Dad asks.

“Me and Milo are gonna block up a couple rows of the spreaders, that'll let us save back three or four sacks each. You just gotta hold onto ‘em…” she pauses, takes another deep breath. “And Durum said to ask you to bring them into the city your last run before the Games.”

Dad takes a deep breath, lets it hiss out pass his teeth. “We can keep the stuff in the cellar, shouldn't be a problem.” He looks at Zea. “What am I supposed to do with ‘em in the City?”

“You'll get stopped at a checkpoint,” Zea says, “there's a couple Peacekeepers with us, they'll offload the stuff and get it to where we need it.”

Dad shakes his head. “Zea… you know what you're asking me to do?”

Zea nods.

“Will this work?” Mom asks, looking Zea in the eye.

“Yes,” Zea says. “I really think it will.” Her heart hammers in her chest, and then Mom steps up and hugs her tight.

“Be careful, honey,” she says, still holding on. “Please be careful.”

When Mom lets go, Zea steps back and looks at Dad. He nods.

“Okay,” he says. “You just tell us what to do.”

Zea nods. “Tomorrow night. We’ll need to move the bags out of the planters. Milo's gonna help.”

Dad nods again. Zea steps up and hugs him. He's big and warm and familiar and she wants to take it all back, stay here and sleep in the attic room these houses usually have, stay with them and keep everyone safe. But she promised.

“I love you,” she says. “Thank you.”

“I love you too, girlen,” he says.

Mom hugs her once more before they head back. “I love you, Zea,” she says.

“Love you too, Mom,” Zea says, and heads back to her tent.

When they get up the next morning, Zea catches Milo's eye and nods. They load up the planters, load fertilizer into the bins, one per row, the last one blocked, sensors disabled, holding still filled sacks.

Milo nods to her again at the end of the day, when they park the machines in the garage, slipping in last behind Bran and Emmer.

Zea tries to relax at dinner, tries to chat with the rest of them, but she can barely choke down her food, she's so nervous. It seems like an eternity before the rest of the crew heads out to their tents.

Milo’s waiting in the shadows when they step into the garage. He nods and Zea, her mom and dad, and they open the bins on his planter, haul out the sacks. Milo helps her settle one against her shoulder and she follows Dad to the cellar door, down into the pitch dark room below. She stumbles, and Dad grabs her arm, helps her stack the bag against the back wall. Mom and Milo come in after them. Two more trips and it's done, eight sacks, eight hundred pounds of ammonium nitrate stacked against the cellar wall, and in the dim light from the door, they stack bags of potatoes, old tools, rough burlap over the bags until they're well hidden from anyone who happens to glance in.

“Thank you,” Milo says, and disappears into the dark.

“Thanks,” Zea says, hugs them both, and slips into her tent.

“Hmmmm,” Ester turns toward her when she comes in. “Your parents are nice,” she says, and Zea laughs, relief washing through her.

“Sure they are,” she says, shrugging out of her jacket and jeans and crawling in next to Emmer.

“You look just like your mom,” Emmer adds, sleepy.

“I know,” Zea says, curling up at Emmer’s back. “Go to sleep, Ester’s gonna drag us up even earlier tomorrow, we don't need the light to drive.”

She's right, it's still dark when Ester wakes them. Mom and Dad are up though, and these hugs are tight, a little desperate, and Zea tells them she loves them knowing full well it could be the last time.

“Be careful,” Mom says again.

Zea nods. “You too,” she says, looking at Dad.

He nods. “Always am,” he says, and then, when Zea scowls, he chuckles and adds, “I'll be careful.”

“Zea!” Ester calls, “let’s go!”

Zea takes a deep breath and walks over to the truck she's driving. Volunteered to drive, so she'd have some time alone. When she turns back her parents are watching, standing next to each other, holding hands.

She watches them in the rear view mirror until they fade into the dark.


	3. If they ever know themselves

It's Keita who finally tells Sara, as they're heading out of Six after the Reaping, timed so they'll be in Nine when the Arena falls. He makes up an electrical issue with a coupling so they're out between cars with the wind whistling and no one to hear.

"I heard Joe talking," he says, "before they took the Games train in." He glances around as though President fucking Snow was going to show up in the fucking borderlands on a train going 100 miles an hour to push them onto the track. "He looked mad. Said something about priority Victors, only taking a few on the hovercraft, so I asked."

He pauses, and Sara takes a deep, careful breath. "Rokia's not a priority," she says, flat. He shakes his head.

"He made me promise not to tell you," Keita says, eyes shifting, guilty. "But..." he shrugs. "Didn't think it was right. Girl's done a lot."

Sara glares at him. As if he even has a clue what Rokia's done to keep all of them safe. And now she's not a _priority_? Those fuckers. "I need to see the cargo schedules," she says. "I'm not leaving her there."

Keita winces, nods. "You can't just run off to the Capitol because of one girl," he says, and Sara's hands clench to fists.

"You have no fucking clue what you're talking about," Sara says, her voice foreign in her own ears, clipped and precise. "And I don't _have_ to go myself to get her out, but you better believe I will if there's no other way."

 

As it turns out, there’s a cargo train heading out of the Capitol for Eight just after the Arena is set to blow, and Sara’s pretty sure that’s no kind of coincidence. Why nobody’d already figured it was worth trying to slip Rokia out somehow is another question, and one she intends on bringing up—but not just yet. She checks the crew list, and she doesn’t know for sure they’re rebels, but Myriam is on that train. Sara remembers her as the firecracker who’d gotten them told off for loitering, in a bar by the loading docks in Ten Sara’s first year on the rails. So it’s a good bet that if Myriam’s on that crew they’re not loyalists.

Now she just has to figure out how to pass the message. Sara thinks for a while, then picks up the radio and calls the Capitol barracks.

“Yeah,” Joe says, clipped.

“Joe, it’s Sara,” she says, and they’ve made a habit of being friendly when they see each other, so stuff like this can slide under the radar as much as possible.

“What do you need, Sara?” He’s wary, and Sara knows he’s figuring she’s pissed off about Rokia. And she is, but it’s no use blowing up now, everything’s already in motion and this is way too important.

She takes a deep breath. “My buddy Matt really likes that fancy Capitol coffee,” she says. Pauses. “And a friend of mine, Myriam, she’s gonna be heading out a couple days from now. Eight then Six, and I’m thinkin’ she won’t mind taking some along.”

Joe’s silent for a long moment. “You know I’m not supposed to do that,” he says.

Now Sara’s anger flares, because like she gives a fuck what he’s supposed to do. “Just a half-kilo,” she says, trying to keep from letting the anger seep into her voice. “Don’t think anybody’ll mind that.”

Joe sighs. Sara holds her breath. He knows what she’s talking about. If it’d really been coffee he’d’ve laughed and said just so long as it’s for personal use only, or just this once, or made fun of her for having expensive tastes. He knows what she’s asking.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, finally.

“Thanks,” Sara grits out. “Matt’ll be pissed otherwise.” And that right there is the truth. Matt doesn’t know about any of this, he’s got a wife and a kid and it’s way too dangerous, but if he knew these guys were screwing with Rokia he’d be right there with Sara taking them to task.

Joe huffs. “Alright,” he says, “10-4” and the line cuts out.

 

* * *

 

Reaping day finds Zea a lot farther east than they usually cut. It’s not an accident. Zea doesn’t know who they have in logistics, but someone’s been messing with their schedule since spring planting and now they want them close to the City.

The day’s usually a bit of a party, out here where nobody’s got kids in—it’s a day off work in a season with too few of them, so people take the chance to celebrate while they can. This year it’s subdued. They’ve been pulling long days all season, before dawn until after dusk, and the Depots have been locked down tighter than ever, nothing slipping into their meals from contraband stills or even vegetable gardens. More Peacekeepers keeping more careful watch.

It seems stupid, really. Nothing’s happened here to make the Capitol suspicious, but cracking down on all the little things that make life out here bearable seems like a good way to make even the most disinterested isolationists into rebels, in their own careful ways. It’s not like a little bootleg liquor or a few fresh cucumbers ever hurt the Capitol any.

But in any case here they are, sitting in the Depot waiting for the Reaping broadcast to come on.Zea’s drinking bitter regulation coffee and sitting in the shade of the garage with Milo while Emmer’s in there fixing Zea’s header. They’re both half asleep until a Peacekeeper steps up beside them.

“Milo Brunk?” Zea’s hoping for some cue, but there’s nothing in the voice that says anything other than Peacekeeper authority.

Milo stands up. “That’d be me,” he says.

“Come with me.”

Zea watches as they walk across the grass to the edge of the wheatfield. They’re not there long, and then Milo turns and comes back towards her, hands in his pockets, head down. Anyone watching would think he’d been chewed out for something, one of the thousand smartass comments he can’t seem to not make. Zea almost thinks that’s what it is, until he gets close enough that she can see his face. He’s biting his lip, trying to look chastened, but the grin half-escapes anyway.

Zea raises an eyebrow. Milo shakes his head, sits down next to her. Doesn’t say anything, damn him.

“What’d he want?” she asks finally, since he’s not talking.

“Just passing on a message,” Milo says. And apparently that’s all she’s going to get.

 

The Reapings are…odd. There’s no other word for it. Clara and Bert get called from Nine, Zea notes without much interest. The star-crossed lovers from District Twelve, that’ll make the Capitol crazy. As will Finnick Odair from District Four, and the golden siblings from One. Nobody else really registers much—a few people are whispering and sighing, but Zea’s never paid much attention to celebrity gossip so the names are mostly just so much noise.

What’s much more interesting is Milo pulling her out toward the wheatfields after the broadcast ends.

“You gonna tell me what you were whispering about?” Zea asks, once they’re far enough away not to be overheard.

Milo gives her a flat look, doesn’t answer the question except by giving her what she wanted. “There’s a code,” he says. “Bread in the Arena. District is which day. Number is what time.”

Zea nods. “I guess it’ll make sense when we see it,” she says, a little dubious.

“It’ll be at night. We gotta leave as early as we can, with the truck.”

Zea sighs. That’s been the plan, Lucerne told her about it on the one stolen evening they managed in a 3-day turnaround leave. She still has no idea how they’re supposed to disappear with a goddamn semi, but okay, she’ll give it a shot.

She looks back towards the rest of the crew. Emmer’s looking towards them, gets up, starts walking over.

“That girl’s gonna be trouble,” Milo whispers, walks off as Emmer gets close.

“What’s up?” Emmer asks.

“Nothing,” Zea says. Too quick. Emmer’s eyes narrow. “It’s just Milo being Milo,” she adds.

Emmer’s mouth twists. “I don’t know why you like him so much,” she grouses. “He’s gonna get you in trouble one of these days.”

Zea shrugs. “He’s fun,” she says, mild. “Don’t worry about me.” She slings an arm around Emmer’s shoulders. “I can get into trouble all by myself.”

Emmer looks up, scowling. “That’s why I’m worried,” she says, but she leans a little against Zea’s side as they walk back to the group.

 

The bread code lets them know: third day, midnight. They’re close to the City, but not close enough to wait for everyone to fall asleep, even assuming they could count on the whole crew to sleep through a semi driving off. Milo needs to meet up with Virgil at the checkpoint, drive the car to the Peacekeeper barracks. Virgil’s never driven anything bigger than a forklift, and he’d probably manage the car but nobody wants to count on that. Not when the car’s packed full of homemade explosives that just might go off if he hits something. And that has to happen right at midnight, just as soon as anyone realizes something’s happening, because afterwards the whole city will be locked down tight as a prison if there’s Peacekeepers around to do it.

So they have to get out early. Zea just doesn’t know how.

Until Milo passes around home-brew beer while they’re watching the recaps.

He catches her eye when he hands her hers, nods once. Zea takes it, sips. Waits for him to hand one to Emmer, sprawled on the grass beside her.

“Cheers,” she says, hoping Emmer can’t hear her heart hammering in her chest.

Emmer gives her a tired smile. “Cheers,” she says. They both drink.

Zea watches Milo, who’s watching Ester. It doesn’t take long. Ester slides down to lie in the grass, head on Dale’s chest. Emmer curls on her side next to Zea, Bran stretches out next to Milo.

Milo looks at her. Nods.

Zea stands up, like she’s in a dream.

Milo pulls a bottle out of his pocket, dribbles a few drops onto everyone’s sleeping lips. Drops the bottle next to Ester.

“Come on,” he says, and Zea was expecting a whisper, jumps at his voice.

It’s silent. They’re miles from any depot. The sun’s just setting when Milo climbs up into Bran’s truck and turns the key.

Zea climbs up into the passenger seat. Milo heads carefully down the access road toward the highway, toward the City. Zea watches in the rear view mirror until the camp disappears behind them.

 

It’s after eleven when they get to the checkpoint, the bottleneck for anyone coming into the City.

A Peacekeeper steps up to the cab, weapon in hand. “Papers?” he asks.

“Oklahoma,” Milo says. A codeword. The man steps back, waves them into a side lot. The Peacekeeper waiting there has his visor raised, and Zea recognizes him.

“Alister,” she says. He barely spares her a glance, leads Milo over to the car. It looks innocuous enough, Capitol seal stamped on the side, the kind of car Zea’s seen taking important visitors from the station to wherever in the City they need to go.

Virgil’s sitting in the backseat, adjusting wires. Behind him somewhere are eight bags of fertilizer and whatever else they need to ignite.

“They’ll try to stop you,” Alister says. His eyes are level on Milo’s, his voice flat. “Just keep driving, straight through the barrier. Get close to the building, then light it. Don’t use too long a fuse.”

Milo nods.

It never quite seemed real, back in Durum’s basement, out in the fields, in the cellar with her folks. Never really hit Zea just what they were doing. What they were risking. What it meant to leave a short fuse burning on a bomb as you ran away. She forces herself to breathe, in and out. Milo looks over at her. Steps up and wraps herin a hug.

“Good luck,” Zea says, as she steps away, still holding his hand.

“You too,” Milo says. “See you soon.”

His voice catches, just a little. Zea nods, blinks back tears.

“Come on,” Alister says. “I’ll escort you in.”

He calls in something on the radio about an unscheduled test shipment, motions to one of the men and they climb into the armored Peacekeeper transport idling by the checkpoint entrance.

Zea climbs into the cab and follows.

They split up when they get close. Zea waits, Alister follows Milo for a bit before turning off to get Lucerne and Durum.

She can’t be caught driving through the streets alone, but soon Milo will make sure the PKs have better things to worry about.

The radio’s on low, broadcasting Games commentary, and as midnight approaches the announcers seem more and more confused. Zea can’t really follow, until there’s a boom on the radio and it cuts out.

She starts counting. She makes it to 50 before the blast hits her, sound so loud she hears it in her chest as much as in her ears, sees flames bursting up on the horizon.

Zea puts the truck in gear.

 

The stars are brilliant overhead as though they’re out on the Plains, not here in the City. The power’s been cut, and the only light is the fire at the PK barracks, roaring and crackling and bursting into sparks and loud booms when the fire reaches an ammunition cache or a fuel drum.

Sara’s waiting when Zea pulls up to the loading docks. Her whole body’s wound tight and she’s rocking on the balls of her feet. Zea leans down with the bolt cutters, tosses them to Sara. Sara snaps the chain on the gate and shoves. Zea pushes it the rest of the way with the nose of the cab. Doesn’t wait for Sara but drives straight to where the fertilizer tanks loom in the dark, four guys standing huddled in a shadow. Zea jumps down, leaving the truck idling behind her.

“Which one?” she asks, and they jump into motion. One guy—kid, looks like, runs into the control room and flips a switch. The lights go on just for a moment before he turns them off.

“Generator,” says the guy next to Zea, and that makes sense. Critical infrastructure and all.

Sara comes up then, breathing fast, and hands the bolt cutters to Zea. She glances over at the train cars on the side line. “Let’s fill these,” she says, “Come on.”

All of them look like they want to ask questions, but there’s no time. The boss shows them the fill pipes and then they’re all four helping get everything lined up.

They get three cars filled before they hear the train approaching. Sara runs down to the main line, past tankers labelled for diesel up to the engine. Zea heads toward the couplings, because she might not be a gearhead but she didn’t spend all winter loading trains to not know how the things go together. Sara meets her there as the engine arrives, helps Zea throw the coupling, connects the power line, and they’re barely out of the way before the train lurches forward. It’s picking up speed a lot faster than usual, rattling fast toward District Six, and Zea locks eyes with Sara for just a second before they’re racing back toward the truck.

By the time they get there the guys have it filled. Zea shakes hands with the boss, looks him in the eye.

“Disappear,” she says. “Tonight.”

He nods. “Godspeed,” he says, deep voice rumbling under the sound of the fire, the receeding clatter of the train.

Zea just nods back, turns and hops into the cab. Sara’s already waiting in the passenger seat, fiddling with their radio.

Zea puts the truck in gear.

“We have our cargo,” Sara says into the radio. “Moving.”

Silence for a long moment before the radio crackles.

“Proceed to rendezvous,” Lucerne’s voice is calm. “Escort will meet you.”

Just hearing Lucerne’s voice is a good sign, and Zea glances over at Sara, who’s grinning.

“Copy,” Sara says, switches to the standard Peacekeeper frequency.

The Peacekeeper signals are usually encrypted, not sent over an open band, but tonight everything is chaotic enough they’ve given up on protocol. A lot of it may as well be code, Peacekeeper jargon and shorthand slang none of them know. But Zea understands enough: evacuation orders, calling in the PKs from the Depots, and as they’re winding toward the rendezvous there’s finally an order to lock down the train yards. Zea grins into the dark at that one, but she’s turned off her headlights, can’t take her eyes off the road to trade looks with Sara.

Finally she sees the headlights. Alister’s transport, Capitol seal glowing D9 gold against black. Zea can see Lucerne in the passenger seat, bent over the radio, and the others should be in back. Zea wishes she could ask about Milo and Virgil, if they managed to get out. She can see the bomb worked, and she guesses that’s the most important part, but Zea’s never been good about causes, seeing the big picture that’s supposed to be more important than just people.

Zea slows to let Alister pull out in front of her, settles into an easy follow distance, then glances at Sara.

“Can you ask…” she trails off, not quite willing to voice the thought aloud.

“PK-402 can you confirm cargo?” Sara asks, clipped and businesslike.

“All present and accounted for,” Lucerne replies immediately. Zea doesn’t think she’s imagining the relief in Lucerne’s voice, or the slight sag in Sara’s shoulders.

“Copy,” Sara says, clicks off the mic.

They drive all night, south and west into areas Zea doesn’t know, and as the sky is lightening they come to the end of the road— or the pavement at least. A dirt track continues and Zea downshifts, follows Alister into the trees. Trees! And not just a hedgerow or a line of cottonwoods marking a stream, but a forest, stretching out in front of them. The land’s folding up into hills, too, with rocks protruding out onto the road.

“Didn’t know you guys had this in 9,” Sara says.

“Me either!” Zea laughs.

They’re moving downhill, and pretty soon they get to the edge of a stream. It cuts across the road, and on the other side there’s a cliff, with a thin strip of sand between the rock and the river.

“Pull up on that sandbank,” Lucerne says, through the radio.

Sara raises one eyebrow and looks at Zea. Zea shrugs, downshifts again. The river’s low, but it’s a sharp turn and backing a trailer, well, that was always Dale’s job, or Ester’s. Zea bites her lip, closes off the line of thought that leads to wondering what they’ll do to Ester when they wake up in a couple hours to find her and Milo and a semi missing.

It takes a couple rounds of back and forth to get the trailer lined up against the cliff, even though Alister gets out to help signal her. But eventually it’s lined up to his satisfaction and Zea kills the engine. Sara looks at her, eyes wide, grinning. Zea grins back, squeezes Sara’s hand once, then turns and hops down from the truck.

Lucerne’s opening the back of the transport, and Zea hurries over, just in time to help Durum climb down. He squints out into the twilight, trying to see, hand locked around Zea’s arm.

“Well I’ll be,” he says, voice faint.

Zea leads him over to where Alister is ducking into a hole in the cliff. It’s just high enough to sit, or to crawl, but the Peacekeeper is checking it thoroughly all the same. Zea knows Lucerne and Virgil trust him but her hackles still rise at the white uniform, the gun holstered at his hip.

“What’re you looking for?” she asks, trying to keep the hint of accusation out of her face.

“Snakes,” he says, short and clipped, and Zea leaves him to it.

Lucerne comes next, sitting next to Durum and taking his hand. “Made it out,” she says in a low voice.

“Sure did,” he says, and then they all turn to where Milo and Sara are coming, Virgil limping between them. Zea slides out to her feet and hugs Milo hard. He startles, then chuckles and brings his arms up around her.

“Okay kid,” he says, still chuckling, and pulls away. “Yean, we’re alright, Virgil just got a piece of something in his leg.”

Zea looks over. Virgil’s up at the lip of the cave, looking around. The leg of his jeans is rolled up, the cuff stiff with blood, a bloody haphazard bandage around his leg.

“He’ll be okay though?” Zea asks, suddenly feeling childish.

“Sure,” Milo says with a crooked half smile. “PK apparently has some first aid training and there’s enough supplies in that truck of his to kit out an entire Depot.”

Sure enough, Alister finishes his check and heads back down to the transport. He comes back with an armload of stuff, hands some of it to Milo.

“Get this over the cars,” he says, a voice that doesn’t invite questions. Ester wishes she could give orders that well.

Milo raises one eyebrow, and Zea worries for a minute. Milo was always even worse at taking orders than Ester was at giving them. But then he nods.

“C’mon Zea,” he says, heading down.

It’s burlap, huge swaths, and they toss it over the transport, pull out more for the truck. Zea gets up top, drops lengths over until the whole thing’s covered.

It’s not bad camoflauge. Between that, the trees, and the cliff wall overhang, you’d be hard-pressed to find the truck from the air. Zea wouldn’t have thought of it.

Guess the PK’ll come in handy after all.

When they get back, Virgil’s leg’s been sewed up and wrapped in clean gauze and everyone’s unrolling blankets to try to get some sleep.

Zea hangs back at the cave mouth, looking around. She ought to be tired, after everything, but instead she’s keyed up, excited, ready to explore, and the brightening daylight doesn’t help.

Sara comes up behind her.

“Hey there,” she says, and Zea looks over. Sara looks as alert as Zea feels. “I told Alister we’d take first watch,” she goes on. “Hope you don’t mind.”

 

* * *

  

They made it. The sense of relief, excitement, sheer exhausted joy flooding off all the Nines is contagious—but Sara can’t relax yet. She grabs the radio as they pass the transport, glares back at Alister when he calls after her.

“I need to call long-distance,” she says. “I’m not going far.”

Zea gives her a curious look, but Sara just shrugs. It’s complicated. 

They come out of the little valley and climb up onto a hill. Back out into the wide exposed open Sara’s always disliked about District 9. But for this she needs open. And she probably needs to be higher. Good thing they’ve apparently found the only place in the entire district that actually has trees.

Zea’s watching out toward the horizon, so Sara slings the radio over her shoulder and jumps up to catch a branch. From there it’s easy climbing up to the top, where she perches, pulls out the radio and the code sheet.

There’s a lot happening on both of the frequencies Joe showed her, but the voice channel’s faint and full of static and Sara doubts this little radio’d be strong enough to use that. She uncoils wire down the tree, extending the antenna as far as it’ll go. There. She flips to the right frequency, finger on the key to tap out the code. _D-9_ first, three times, for “I want to say something.” Then _D-8_ twice, because she needs to talk to someone there.

 _D-8_ just once, calling back.

Sara takes a deep breath. Types _R-O-K-I-A-?_ And waits. And waits.

And then finally, _D-8_ again, in case she’d forgotten. _H-E-R-E-S-A-F-E._

Sara breathes out.

 _D-9-O-U-T._ Signing off.

It’s all Sara can do not to laugh as she winds up the wire and climbs down. She’s shaky with relief and grinning like an idiot when her feet touch the ground.

Zea turns back from studying the horizon. “Good news?” she asks.

And damn, apparently she won’t get away without an explanation. Fair enough. “Friend of mine got out of the Capitol,” Sara says. Zea’s still waiting, puzzled. “Rokia,” Sara adds, and then, “Victor from Six,” when that doesn’t seem to ring a bell.

Zea looks thoughtful for a second. “Oh,” she starts. “Small, dark, likes cars I think?”

Sara can’t help the sour twist she’s sure shows on her face. Zea holds her hands up. Surrender. “Hey, I don’t watch much TV.”

Sara just shakes her head. Advantage to living way out here, she guesses. Nobody to make you pay attention.

Zea comes over, the same mix of confidence and hesitation as always, sits with her back against the tree and motions for Sara to join. Sara leans against her, suddenly tired. “She was my best friend,” Sara says, quiet enough she’s not sure Zea even heard. Not sure she meant for Zea to hear. But Zea puts an arm around her shoulders, steadying and comforting. “Everybody thinks being a Victor is so great,” she says, because she needs to say it out loud finally. “But it’s all bullshit. All of it.”

“I’m sorry,” Zea says, after a pause. Damn slow talking farmers, but at least Sara knows by the time something comes out of Zea’s mouth she means it.

“Not your fault,” Sara says.

“Still,” Zea says. Looks at Sara with her head cocked to one side. “When this is over you’ll have to introduce me.”

Sara’s so startled she laughs. Tries to imagine an after-this and can’t come up with anything. Abstract stuff, sure: no more Games, no more Peacekeepers, no more Capitol telling them all what to do. But the day-to-day? A world where Zea can get on a train, come to Six, meet Rokia, where they’re all friends doing—it falls apart. Sara can’t dream that far, not yet. But it’d be nice.

“Sure,” she says, still half chuckling. “That’d be great.”

Zea’s smile spreads slow across her face before lighting her eyes. Sky-blue eyes locked on Sara’s, and Sara guesses what’s coming just as Zea bites her lip, leans forward. Zea’s calloused fingers brush Sara’s jaw, and Sara stretches up to meet her kiss, pressing close. It’s days and days of adrenaline letting go all at once, and Sara feels drunk on it, on this, on being surprisingly, miraculously, insistently alive.

She pulls back finally, reluctantly, because they’re supposed to be on watch. But she’s still pressed close against Zea’s side, still flushed with everything they’ve done and everything they’re about to do, and not even the rainstorm that shows up to soak them to the skin can bring her down.

The thunder’s crashing around them when Zea stands up, pulls Sara to her feet. “Come on,” she says, loud over the roar of the rain. “We gotta go down.”

Sara wants to stay right here, in the wild moment, but Zea’s voice is urgent. “I didn’t survive this far just to get killed by lightning,” she says, tugging Sara’s hand. Sara gives in.

The Peacekeeper’s coming up as they go down. “You shouldn’t go up there in this,” Zea says, and Sara almost laughs, he looks so annoyed.

“I know,” he says, flat. “I was coming to get you, now go get dry before you freeze.”

Sara doesn’t say anything, but he’s soaked just as much as they are, and he’s made no move to go back, just stands there behind the transport, staring down the road.

The rest of them are under the little overhang. Lucerne is sitting by the fire, the others spread out sleeping. “Go rest,” the old lady says, glancing between the two of them. Sara realizes they’re still holding hands, resists the urge to let go because that’d only make it more obvious.

Zea tugs at her, and Sara follows. There’s two pallets laid out in the back. Zea drops Sara’s hand, but only long enough to go to one side and shove the thin mats together. She raises an eyebrow in question and Sara nods. Sara notices the cold now, as she sheds her wet outer layers, crawls under the blankets. She feels Zea climb in behind her and then pause, tentative. Sara smiles to herself at the farm-girl politeness of it, shifts closer. Zea takes the hint, reaches a long arm around Sara, tucks herself in close.

It’s warm, and safe, and for the moment at least, that’s all Sara needs.


End file.
